Page 64 of A Loser by Christmas
I get busy then with recording a final voiceover that will have to include service station background chatter. I can’t let myself care if it doesn’t meet contest-level production standards. At least it’s finished.
“What are you doing now?”
“Rendering the video so it’s ready to upload.”
Dad checks his watch. “When is your cutoff?”
“This evening.”
It’s mid-afternoon. We’re four hours from Cornwall. That should be plenty of time to make my deadline. He scans the gridlocked traffic through a café window, maybe not so certain. “What if you can’t show it to Trelawney in time to get his agreement?”
I don’t need Calum’s permission. He’s already on tape stating I’m the owner of this content. I can do whatever the fuck I want with it. My head knows that. Tell it to what has already flown ahead to Cornwall to leave my chest empty.
People talk about falling head over heels for knights in shining armour. I don’t know when I fell hand over heart for Calum, but I guess Dad has watched it happen. Before today, I’m not sure I would have believed he could be this softly spoken. “Will the contest entries be made public in time to make his club rethink? One of those articles said that other clubs sometimes involve a third party to hash out this kind of stalemate. Is there enough time left for that to happen. Or for it to make a difference?”
To Calum’s long-term outcome?
It slays me that I can’t answer his question.
“Regardless,” Dad tells me, “if you’re right, I can’t see how you won’t win. What you’ve put together is explosive.” He swallows thickly. “Wish your mother could see it.”
Not every wish gets granted. I know that. But mon père didn’t ever wish to be a salesman, did he?
Speed was his first vocation.
It’s still his best skill set.
When the motorway clears, there’s no one else on the planet who could get me to Cornwall faster.
19
If there’sa land-speed record for boat transporters, Dad breaks it.
We cross the Cornish border after sunset, and a relieved Trelawney guides us via speaker around the edge of moorland. It’s so empty in contrast to the city where I last saw him. There’s no sign here of Christmas shoppers or of the streetlight angels Calum once stared up at. Not a single star lights this bleak and barren landscape. It’s...
The end of the world.
I can’t let what I found hiding in my B-roll be the end of Calum’s.
I won’t.
Calum sounds equally determined. “Ignore your satnav.” His voice fills the cab as he sends Dad down narrow lanes that seem to lead us nowhere helpful. “Trust me,” Calum tells us. “Keep the tors to your right, and you won’t get lost.”
“Tors?” Dad barks. “I can’t see any tors. I can’t see any bloody thing. There’s nothing here.”
The moon finds a break in night-dark clouds. “There.” I point at a single stony giant standing sentry in the distance. A lone star hangs above it as if signposting the right direction for us.
“That’ll be High Tor.” Calum must forget that Dad can hear him. “Really wanted to see the sunrise from the top with you one day.”
He sounds way too fragile. And too full of want for me to ever hide how much I mean this. “You will.”
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Oui,” I tell him firmly.
I repeat that when we finally arrive in a village car park to find what seems like every soul who lives in Porthperrin has come out to greet us. A crowd gathers around Dad’s boat transporter. Men hold up lanterns and children run in giddy circles. “Maisie!” a man bellows as loudly as mon père ever bellowed at me. “Take care on the cobbles. They’re slippery.”
All I see is someone who put theHoin hockey.
